A Midsummer's Daydream
It happens every year, typically around late June, but it never fails to take me by surprise. It's a peculiar feeling, particularly because the timing just seems, well, odd.
It doesn't matter how many dreary winter hours I've whiled away thinking about what my summer purchases will be. I know, it's lame, but I've logged many an Internet hour searching for the perfect gladiator sandal.
And yet, the longing hits me like a brick to the back of the head—I want fall (the season, not the verb). Call me fickle, but I'm barely into summer when all I can think about is a comfy, oversized sweater; a pair of mercifully flat equestrian boots; and a warm cup of tea.
The grass is always greener, huh?
Truth be told, I blame it on the annual, monthlong fight with my summer shoes. All through June, my formerly boot-clad feet scream at me because I insist on breaking out the slingbacks and sandals before they're ready. It's my fault, of course. Instead of easing them in, I let my summer shoes loose like the out-of-control gazelle stampede from The Lion King. My toes aren't used to being encased in strappy concoctions or raised up on espadrille platforms, and in protest, they turn into moody five-year-old twins.
For the first few weeks, the blisters and cuts mar my pedi-landscape, as though the kids just went crazy with fingerpaints on a white wall. What can I say? They're acting out. June is a tense month in my house.
I don't really know why I do it, exactly. And I think my feet might be onto me. They suspect my heart's just not in it once the initial, blue-skies excitement wears off. I can't appreciate the weather I have and anxiously anticipate what's on the other side of August. All these gorgeous summer shoes are merely window dressing for the main event. My poor toes are being taken advantage of. We, all 11 of us, know it's true. So they rebel. And I deserve it.